


Half

by last_beginning



Series: TMA Fan Statements [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Grief, M/M, SO, Transcript Format, assisted suicide tw, haha wuhoh, i honestly didnt really find it fulfilling, i wrote a breekon statement instead to precede his death, in a little domain of his own, like constant grief, so heres the thing, while breekons canon death had some great things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/last_beginning/pseuds/last_beginning
Summary: Statement of the remaining half of the entity calling itself 'Breekon & Hope', recorded live from subject, regarding life without its other half in this new world, in situ. Date unknown, post Change.Statement begins.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Stranger Entity Breekon/Stranger Entity Hope (The Magnus Archives)
Series: TMA Fan Statements [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936348
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	Half

[INT. A HOUSE]

[TAPE CLICKS ON.]

[THERE’S THE CLICK OF DRESS SHOES ON CLEAN HARDWOOD FLOORS. THE SOUND FADES, AND OTHER, MORE FAMILIAR FOOTSTEPS DRAW CLOSER. THERE IS THE SOUND OF RUSTLING CLOTHES.]

MARTIN  
Lonely’s not very, uh, creative, I see? 

ARCHIVIST  
Doesn’t need to be.

MARTIN  
Right, right, of course. I.. don’t feel, um, affected, though, which is. Pleasant?

ARCHIVIST  
That specific domain had a… more targeted goal. Wanted you to just remember the self loathing. This domain is quite comfortable letting you keep all of your memories.

MARTIN  
Jon.

ARCHIVIST  
Right, yes, sorry. 

MARTIN  
[OVERLAPPING.] It’s alright. So, um… now seems like the time you would. Need to do your thing? As good a place as any, I think, before we get too deep. 

ARCHIVIST  
Normally I’d agree. Unfortunately, however, I’m not going to be the one making a statement here. 

MARTIN  
Wh-What?

ARCHIVIST  
[QUICKLY.] Not you. Uh… Okay, sit on the loveseat, he should be here soon. 

MARTIN  
What- who? Who should be here soon? Jon!

ARCHIVIST  
It’s alright, we’ll both be fine. He won’t even try to hurt us. Just sit. It’s, uh-

[DRESS SHOES DRAW CLOSER, AND MARTIN SWEARS UNDER HIS BREATH. THE MAN CHUCKLES IN AN OVERDONE COCKNEY ACCENT.]

[IT'S BREEKON.]

[WHEN HE SPEAKS, IT IS QUIET AND AIRY.]

BREEKON  
Ah. Magnus’ lot. Care for some tea? 

MARTIN  
No thank you.

ARCHIVIST  
I’ll pass. 

BREEKON  
Suit yourself. 

[A CERAMIC CUP IS PLACED ON A TABLE, AND SOME LIQUID IS POURED INTO IT BEFORE A CERAMIC TEAPOT JOINS IT.]

BREEKON (cont’d)  
So. Welcome to our humble abode. What d’you want?

MARTIN  
[ANNOYED.] Apparently we’re supposed to record a statement from you. More pressing question: Why are you wearing a tux? How are you even here? Last I recall, you prefer to wear gray delivery men outfits, and also, were a monster.

BREEKON  
As for how… We don’t right know. We should be in the circus, or something, right? We shouldn’t be prey. For the why, though, we think we can guess.

ARCHIVIST  
It’s a funeral tux, Martin. 

[BEAT.]

MARTIN  
Ah. So when you say “our”...

BREEKON  
We mean just “we”. We are not “us” anymore, thanks to the dog. We weren’t always this… devoted to that word, “we”, but it has become… a comfort for us. Or not, cause it still hurts. Difficult to say.

…

Well? Ask, Archivist. That’s what you do, innit?

ARCHIVIST  
Right. First, uh, Martin-

MARTIN  
I, uh… Ugh. I don’t think I should wander off here. Don’t wanna get separated, yknow? 

ARCHIVIST  
[TENDERLY.] Of course. 

[CLOTHES RUSTLING. HE CLEARS HIS THROAT AND TURNS TO BREEKON.]

[AS HE SPEAKS, FAINT STATIC BEGINS TO SOUND.]

ARCHIVIST (cont’d)  
Tell me about your existence in this domain.

[BREEKON’S BREATH CATCHES. HE BREATHES IN AND OUT, SLOWLY.]

[STATEMENT BEGINS.]

BREEKON  
We were never made for a place like this. We were never meant to be stationary. We were always supposed to be on the move, bringing and taking and delivering. We were never supposed to stop. Of course, the dog made sure we were forced to stop, and we had to live on without us. We had to move with half our wheels. 

When we woke up in this house, we knew for certain that we were waiting for our funeral. Then, we knew that the world had changed. We knew it was useless, but we looked anyway. We looked and found a home that was unfamiliar, yet wanted us to find it familiar. There are photos of us all over the house. We tried to destroy them at first- no one should see our face, so clear, but us. Our stolen smiles but still us should never be so easily printed and pasted like some measly mortal’s photo.

The photos always came back, of course. The master bedroom has one dresser, split cleanly down the middle. We get funeral tuxes. When we check the other side of the dresser, we find our clothes, and they smell like our aftershave. Did we wear aftershave? I don’t know. But we can smell it on our clothes, always faint enough we think it will disappear by tomorrow. There is no tomorrow, though, we know, so we always know it will be there. But the Lonely still feeds on us, and tells us that by tomorrow, our smell will be gone.

There’s two bathrooms, one private, one guest. The guest is empty. There are two toothbrushes in the private bathroom, which we know are not ours and yet we know are ours. We know, deeply, that this is not truth, but we feel it as truth, Archivist. It is as real as the ground and the sky, and just as curdled. 

The kitchen has two teacups, two mugs for coffee. Two “to-do” lists stuck to the fridge, two plates of leftovers with “Hope’s - Don’t touch!” written on it. We have no need for food, but we need this food. We know it can’t rot, but we know we are afraid of having to throw it away. We know, written on the calendar pinned to the wall, is our funeral date. It is always coming soon. We are always waiting to watch us become such as the dog- trapped, buried, and alone.

The living room has two loveseats, and two coasters. We would sit in one, together, and it would lean us towards us. We have never done this, but it is truth as much as there can be truth. We’d watch the rugby game and cheer when someone got hurt, and look at us and laugh, and perhaps that is closest to the truth. But it is still layered through the fog. 

We think we could live with the confliction. We could live with the memories that are not ours as much as they are ours. We could survive, and pave on. We could stew in hate and loss until we could tear down the walls. We cannot, however, as we are weak, and we are lonely. It is not enough for us to be one, it is not enough for who we are to be ripped in half, down to the very core. 

What is worse, so much worse, Archivist, is the want. We would have never wanted this, before, but now it fills my mind through and free from the fog. We wonder what it would have been like to wake up next to us in the morning, to steal our leftovers and laugh when we’d feign annoyance. We wonder what it would be like to brush our teeth together in the morning, and to sit clutching ourselves in the loveseat, watching people bowl each other over for sport. We want the toothbrushes, and the leftovers, and the smell of aftershave. We want the mugs of coffee, and cups of tea, and to be wrapped in ourselves in all senses. 

We want now, Archivist, and so the fog has decided we must be taken from. 

[STATEMENT ENDS.]

ARCHIVIST  
[CHOKED UP.] I…

BREEKON  
[TIRED.] Save your words, Archivist. You have better uses for them. Speaking of…

[THE TEA CUP CLINKS AGAINST THE TABLE.]

BREEKON (cont’d)  
I’ve got a request for ya, in exchange for feedin’ you.

MARTIN  
We- we aren’t gonna do anything monstrous-

BREEKON  
Don’t care. Archivist, if you would?

MARTIN  
Jon?

ARCHIVIST  
[CHOKED UP.] He, uh… he wants me to kill him.

MARTIN  
...Oh.

[BEAT]

BREEKON  
Don’t keep me waiting, will you? Not like I’m gonna live forever.

[HE LAUGHS, BITTERLY.]

BREEKON (cont’d)  
I know you can do it. Don’t know how I know. Situation’s pretty unique and all, but I know. It hurts all the time, Archivist, being watched yet crowded in fog yet unknowable yet known. 

ARCHIVIST  
I… Martin?

MARTIN  
I don’t know. He is a monster, but… But he is asking. I… it’s your decision, Jon.

ARCHIVIST  
...Okay. 

…

Are you ready, Breekon? It’s going to hurt.

BREEKON  
Just until it doesn’t. We’re tired of hurting.

ARCHIVIST  
Alright. 

[INTONING.] Ceaseless Watcher, gaze upon this thing, this lost and broken splinter of fear. Take what is left of it as your own and leave no trace of it behind.

[STATIC RISES AS BREEKON GRUNTS IN PAIN AND THEN DISCORPORATES IN AGONY.]

It. Is. Yours.

[STATIC FADES.]

MARTIN  
I… don’t know how to feel about that, I think.

ARCHIVIST  
[CHOKED UP.] I… don’t know either. 

[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]


End file.
